Your Scars Are Beautiful
by pigpuffpickle
Summary: "Don't you dare cry, Mycroft Holmes. You don't deserve too. You're worthless. Of course it is your fault. Everything is your fault." Trigger warning: Self-harming, suicide attempts. JOHNCROFT. R&R.
1. The Bathtub Side Story

_How's the diet going? _Four words that Sherlock managed to slip into the once-on-a-blue-moon conversations he'd have with Mycroft, even though they both knew the answer. Mycroft would then purse his lips and reply, very sternly, _Fine. _And he would stretch the word out, and repeat in his mind, until even he believed it a little.

Mycroft sat at the edge of the bathtub. He hated that the words hurt him so, a simple question, and if it had come from anyone but Sherlock, it would be polite. But this was Sherlock. He didn't ask because he was concerned (Bah! Sherlock? Concerned? Never.) or to make small talk (Something neither of the Holmes brothers appreciated), he did it because he knew it annoyed Mycroft.

Mycroft sighed heavily, and slipped into the warm water that filled the large bathtub. Mycroft had no need for a bathtub of this size, but he bought it because he _could. _Money was one of the few things he felt he had control of, and if he couldn't control his body figure, at least let him have this. Sherlock always scoffed at money, but Mycroft felt having more of it comforting.

Sherlock. Mycroft sighed again, a deeper sigh, when he thought of his brother. He didn't hate Sherlock, in fact, he cared for him very much, and worried for him. Since the passing of their parents, he had always kept an eye on him, monitoring him all the time. But Sherlock didn't return the feelings, he _hated_ Mycroft with a passion. Mycroft didn't show it, but that killed him a little.

Everyone assumed Mycroft was as cold and hard as he was now as a child, but that was quite different. At seven, when he was told he'd be a big brother, he was ecstatic. Finally, someone who would love him, and want to be with him. That was not the case. When baby Sherlock was born, Mycroft couldn't even be in the same room as him or he'd burst into tears. When he became a toddler, he'd throw things at him, and as he got older, there would be snide comments or he'd just be generally ignored.

Sherlock. If Mycroft dug deep into the back of his mind, he knew that Sherlock was the bases to all of Mycroft's problems. Sherlock had always been the good looking one, the better one, the favourite. He wasn't necessarily the smarter one, but he was extremely clever. And, although Sherlock never seemed to notice (or he was just not interested), he always had somebody falling in love with him. Wither it be the girl who worked in the morgue, or his flat-mate and blogger (Who'd deny it right away, but Mycroft could tell.) or even that Irene Adler woman who popped up every now and then.

And Mycroft? Mycroft had never had anyone fall in love with him. He hadn't even had a girlfriend before.

Mycroft had had his eyes closed, but he opened them again, and looked down at his body. He ran his finger along the scars forever engraved up his stomach, arms and legs. He hated how he hurt himself, how he was destroying his body, but if this was one more thing he could have control over, he'd take it. He couldn't even control his bloody _emotions. _Unlike Sherlock. Bloody perfect Sherlock.

Mycroft forced Sherlock out his mind, and tried to focus on the scars again. One particular bad scar, ran right across the bottom of his chest, down his stomach (over his belly button) and to the top of his thigh.

It was when he was 16. It had bled so much; he had to be taken to hospital. It was before he'd had the other scars, so he lied and said he'd been mugged and attacked. If Sherlock or his parents had suspected otherwise, they never spoke up.

The ones on his arms looked like a series of cat cuts that had never faded away. That's why he'd always worn long sleeves, if anyone had seen…

Mycroft banged his arm on the side of the bath when he felt tears whelm up in his eyes.

_Don't you dare cry, Mycroft Holmes. You don't deserve to cry. You're worthless._

Mycroft bit his lower lip. He knew it wasn't Sherlock's fault; this was his fault, purely his.

_Of course it's your fault, everything is your fault. _

Mycroft couldn't control these thoughts, but he could silence them for a little while. Mycroft reached out to the towel next to the bath, and pulled it back. He picked up the sharp instrument, and fell back into the now lukewarm water.

He slid it against his wrist, a comforting pain that silenced the thoughts and stopped him feeling.

Even if it was just for a little while.


	2. Enter: John Watson

John was never told anything. He'd only find out if he over heard it, or just walked in on it. And that is what happened when he walked into 221B Baker Street, armed with a Chinese take-away, and saw Mycroft and Sherlock brooding over cups of tea.

"Hello John," Mycroft looked up. He looked rather ill. Sherlock didn't look up, but nodded in John's general direction.

"Eh, hello, Mycroft," John nodded, "Are you, uh, ok?"

Mycroft raised his eyebrow, and it took him a second to realise that the question was aimed to him, "Yes, John, I'm quite alright," He smiled slightly, and John knew it was a fake smile, and it really didn't suit him.

Struggling to find words to say, John held up the two bags of food, "If you'd told me you were coming over, I would have brought something,"

"No, that's quite alright, I'll just be getting on my way anyway," Mycroft nodded to Sherlock, and stood up.

He took one step, before growing completely pale and collapsing on the floor.

John jumped right into doctor mode, running over to him, checking his pulse and breathing, and when Mycroft suddenly came too, he helped him over to the couch.

"John, I'm alright," Mycroft insisted, although he was shaking like a leaf. Sherlock watched, with one eyebrow cocked, clearly interested.

"Bullshit," John said, "When was the last time you ate?"

"This morning," Mycroft answered, gripping his umbrella.

"No it wasn't," Sherlock suddenly spoke up.

"How would you know?" Mycroft's voice shook, and he was clearly angry.

"Sherlock," John warned, as he handed Mycroft a glass of water.

"There is no trace of food on your clothes or face," Sherlock said.

Mycroft smiled sourly, "Perhaps I washed my face and changed my clothes,"

Sherlock snorted, "I quote, _"Changing clothes all the time wastes your time and there is no reason for it,"_"

Mycroft glared at Sherlock for a few seconds, then his face suddenly fell, "Monday,"

"Monday?" John said in shock, "Four days? What is up with you Holmes's, seriously," He stared at both of them, "Right, you're both eating,"

"John, don't be an idiot," Sherlock said.

"That really won't be needed," Mycroft said.

John glared, and he was quite good at it, "No, listen to me, we have Sherlock here who's skinny as a bloomin' twig, and Mycroft keeling over when he stands up," He stood his head, and disappeared into the kitchen, "No, you are both eating,"

Despite the many protests, the Holmes brothers were not match for an ex-army doctor, who'd had to put up with this sort of stuff, and much worse. He sat and refused to move until they'd both eaten the Chinese.

"And what are you going to eat?" Sherlock asked sarcastically.

John rolled his eyes, "Toast or something, I'm aloud to, because I eat daily, unlike you lot,"

The colour had returned to Mycroft's face and he stood up again, "It'll put the dish away for you,"

John followed him into the kitchen, "Not, that's fine," He said. Mycroft reached out his arm to pass the plate to John, and his sleeve fell to his elbow. Mycroft noticed, and hurriedly tried to pull it down.

It was too late. John grabbed his wrist, and held it under the light.

"Mycroft- what's this?" He whispered furiously. Mycroft glanced to see if Sherlock was watching, but he was playing his violin.

Mycroft grew red, and didn't reply. But John's face was genuine, and full of concern.

"It's nothing, John; this was from a while ago,"

John didn't believe him, and Mycroft knew he didn't. John waited a few seconds, then let his wrist go. Mycroft left the kitchen.

"Goodbye Sherlock," He said. He got no reply, and left, his shoulder shaking a little.

Sherlock looked up from his violin, and saw John, with his hands on each side of the sink, sighing.

"John? Is something wrong?"

John spun, a look of anger on his face, "Have you seriously never noticed?"

Sherlock looked confused, "Noticed what?"

John shook his head, "You need to treat Mycroft better,"

Sherlock scoffed, and shook his head. John sighed, and walked out the kitchen, grabbed his coat, and was about to leave the flat when-

"Where are you going?"

"Out,"

"Where?"

"Places,"


	3. Stupid, everything is so stupid

_Stupidsherlockandstupidjohna ndstupidfoodandstupiddietand stupideverythinganEVERYTHING ISJUSTSOSTUPID_, Mycroft's thoughts are a mess as he goes into his house, slams his back on the door and sinks to the floor, _stupid, stupid, STUPID._

Tears dripped down his face, and he began to mentally insult himself for showing weakness.

_You're an idiot, Mycroft, passing out like that. You only had four days without food. Sherlock goes without it longer. You'll never be like him. _

He clawed at his face, his stomach, his body.

_You're worthless. You may as well die. Nobody would care. _

Mycroft sobbed even harder. It wasn't the first time he'd felt suicidal. But he'd never acted on his thoughts.

_Oh what now? Your too scared! Pathetic._

Suddenly, Mycroft's phone pinged, indicating he had a text. He scrambled to his feet, composed himself, straightened out his suit, and took a deep breathe. He took out his phone.

**You have (1) message from: John Watson (Mobile)**

Mycroft sighed, and hesitantly read the text.

**SMS From: John Watson (Mobile) to: Mycroft Holmes (Mobile)**

**-Mycroft, come for a drink. –JW**

A drink? What game was John playing? He knew Mycroft didn't have the patience or time to drink- especially with…"friends." Was John a friend? He didn't know. His mind was fuzzy from his break down a few minutes ago.

**SMS From: John Watson (Mobile) to: Mycroft Holmes (Mobile)**

**-Please. -JW**

**-My treat. -JW**

**-I insist. -JW**

Mycroft caved in.

**SMS From: Mycroft Holmes (Mobile) to: John Watson (Mobile).**

**-If you insist, although I warn you, I am not the one for drinking. –MH**

**SMS From: John Watson (Mobile) to: Mycroft Holmes (Mobile).**

**-Worry not. **

John sent him the address of the pub he had in mind, and Mycroft got a ride to the area.

It was a small pub, with a few people in it, but it was cozy and pleasant and not too noisy- which was how Mycroft liked it.

He found John sitting in the table at the back, far away from preying eyes and ears. Mycroft had suspected John was going to question him about the cuts on his arms, and this just confirmed his suspicions.

"Mycroft, hey," John said. Mycroft slipped into the seat across from the ex-army doctor.

"Hello John," Mycroft said shortly.

"I'm assuming you know why you're here,"

"It wasn't a hard deduction,"

"Why? How long?"

Mycroft licked his lips. _A year _is what he should have said.

"A couple of months,"

"Hmm,"

There was a momentary silence, and John said suddenly, "I'm getting drinks. We'll talk then,"

"If you insist,"

John stood up, patted Mycroft on the shoulder, pulled back sharply, then walked away to the bar.

Mycroft considered running off, but John returned before he could.

"Right, you need help," John said.

"That's a bit blunt," Mycroft said coldly.

John ignored his comment, "Did Sherlock ever do this?"

Mycroft flinched at the memory, "Yes, once, in university,"

"Hmmm. Ok. You should see a therapist,"

"I don't need help, John,"

"Is it because of Sherlock?"

Mycroft froze, "Excuse me?"

"Is Sherlock the reason?"

Mycroft took a sip of his drink, trying to think of an answer, "Partly,"

John snorted, "I knew it,"

"He can be…difficult,"

"Difficult? He's bloody Sherlock Holmes; of course he's difficult,"

Suddenly, John phone vibrated in his pocket. He didn't need to take it out to realise who it was.

"Are you going to answer that?"

John shrugged, "I'll tell him to piss off,"

Mycroft pushed the conversation away from him, and they discussed cases, new and old.

It got later and later, and they drank more and more, and Mycroft realised he was very drunk. So was John.

"Mycroft, have you ever had a girlfriend?"

"What?"

John hiccupped, "Or a boyfriend I suppose,"

"Nope,"

John leaned across the table, and pulled Mycroft in, whispering in his ear, "You should,"

"That tickles,"

"You see, you see My, your pretty good looking,"

"Am I?"

John nodded, and pulled Mycroft in closer.

He kissed him.


End file.
